


blues and then purple-pink skies

by lowblow



Category: TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Pining, blue hours, the cursed swingset of mutually pining childhood friends, yeonjun is the cool senpai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26583739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowblow/pseuds/lowblow
Summary: Beomgyu sniffles, miserable. "Soobin-hyung gets some.""Nope," Yeonjun says mildly. "Hereallydoesn't."[The woes of being young, hot-headed and in love with your best friend, as told on a swingset at twilight.]
Relationships: Choi Beomgyu/Choi Soobin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 545





	blues and then purple-pink skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liminalism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liminalism/gifts).



> happy birthday bea! I was trying to think of what to say that could encompass how grateful I am that we're friends, but instead I just *handwaves vaguely* did this
> 
> cw for referenced homophobia and minor violence !!

“So you decked him?”

Yeonjun tsks, dabbing at Beomgyu’s bruised knuckles with the hem of his jersey. That couldn’t be hygienic — Beomgyu had seen the thing rolling around in grass and dirt earlier when Yeonjun’d slid across the field to score the winning goal. Taehyun and Kai had been there, proprietarily cheering louder than anyone else in the crowd with a homemade plasterboard banner they’d decorated with smiley yellow suns. 

Soobin had been there too, with chilled water and sugared lemon slices for the team. Probably outshining the real sun, as was his wont. 

Beomgyu should’ve been there next to him. 

Instead he’d been behind the stands, punching Jaewoo from 3-A until he'd drawn blood.

“He called Soobin-hyung a—”

"So? It's the truth,"

" _Hyung,"_

"I'm just sayin'. Why're you getting all hot and bothered, Gyu-yah? _Soobinie_ isn't bothered."

"You should've heard the way he said it," Beomgyu spits, "like it was— like it was vile, or, or wrong.” He ought to be used to it by now. He should’ve just flipped Jaewoo off and called it a day. But the older boy had zeroed in on Beomgyu’s weakness—Soobin—and worried the wound until it pulled a reaction out of him, kicking and screaming. The things Soobin was. The things he might like to do with his pretty mouth. “You know how it is? When they act like it's something _filthy?"_

“Yeah, I do." Yeonjun quirks his lips in a humourless grin, like he only knows all too well, "But we don’t go around punching people for that.” He huffs, grabbing Beomgyu's wrist quick as a flash when he tries to snatch it away, petulant. He isn’t sorry. He’d do it again.

“ _Not_ in front of half the student body and a bunch of parent volunteers," Yeonjun continues. “We do it later, where we won’t get caught. Have I taught you nothing?”

Yeonjun had taught him how to cheat at math, roll a joint, tape a swollen ankle after an arduous practice session, and how to be a loyal, kind, reasonably good person. He'd never taught him how to throw a punch. Beomgyu had learnt that all on his own, nine years old on the playground, his vision flooding red. At thirteen. At sixteen. Today.

Before the slurs, it’d been taunts about his chubby cheeks, his awkward gait. The way he liked Winx Club more than the rangers. Soobin was quiet, never reacted, never said a thing. But _someone_ had to, and so Beomgyu had. It’s not his fault he’s more eloquent with his fists. 

Yeonjun tilts Beomgyu’s chin up to meet his gaze. Under the exasperation he’s expecting, there's understanding. “For the record, I would’ve punched him too,” he says. 

Beomgyu knows it’s true. And he would’ve come out of it unscathed, without red knees or a split lip. Because Yeonjun is older and intimidating and put-together, the ace striker of the football team. Not a mess like Beomgyu — seventeen and scrawny, about as threatening as a puppy, benched all season and pining after his best friend. Yeonjun sits beside him on the cracked, out-of-order fountain tucked away at the back of their schoolyard as Beomgyu cries it out, loud and blubbery.

"Not to, like, intrude or anything, but," Yeonjun starts slowly, pretending to check an invisible watch, but instead of passing some comment about the time and suggesting they get back to society, he asks, "how long has it been, again?"

It's a damning question, one that Beomgyu doesn't want to examine right this moment. 

He’d tried putting it in words, once. As a middle-school freshman, Beomgyu had taken guitar lessons with his brother and fancied himself a songwriter of sorts, scribbling pages upon pages of lyrics, all about Soobin. Soobin’s smile, Soobin’s soft, spongy skin. How he wanted to stay with Soobin forever and ever. They were awful. Awful, unreadable drivel. He’d crumpled them up before anyone could see, and quit the class the following month. 

"A couple of years," he settles for saying, picking at an old scab on his forearm. This one wasn't from a fight, just Beomgyu under a tree, screaming at Soobin to be careful not to fall as he attempted to rescue an injured squirrel (he’d fallen anyway, taking Beomgyu down with him, but at least the accursed marsupial would live). Yeonjun tsks again.

"Hope you guys sort your shit out, for real. It's hard being the only one getting some around here. I never noticed it before but _man_ , repressed teens are always so pissy.” His face grows pale. “Dear god, I hope Kai never hits puberty."

Beomgyu sniffles, miserable. "Soobin-hyung gets some."

"Nope," Yeonjun says mildly. "He _really_ doesn't." He holds his jersey out for Beomgyu. “Here, blow. I don’t need it anymore.”

Beomgyu blows his nose messily in the fabric. "Hyung, will you... walk me home?"

To Yeonjun’s credit, he looks genuinely apologetic. "You know I would, but there's the victory party tonight, and I’m kinda expected to make an appearance." He salutes, getting to his feet, "And I've got a date before."

"With _who?_ I'm amazed you can still find people to date. After they've heard you talk, I mean."

"Destiny," Yeonjun winks. "College interview."

"Oh," Beomgyu straightens involuntarily. "Good luck,” and then, in a sudden burst of childish distress, “Don’t forget me when you— when you go off to—”

“Never.” He remembers to duck, but not fast enough to escape the fate of having his hair ruffled. Yeonjun's laughing when he says, “And good luck to you too.”

  
  
  
  
  


Beomgyu makes the walk back home alone, keats swung over his shoulder by their fraying laces. The sun was setting at an alarming rate, sinking below the horizon like it had something to prove. He knows he’ll have to show face at Somi’s later, too. Somehow, word-of-mouth along the highschool grapevine had rendered it an unofficial going-away party for the graduating seniors. Their little group had their own plans for barbecue next weekend, but Yeonjun’d still be upset if Beomgyu wasn’t in at least a few of the photos.

He exhales, kicking a stone in his path. Now seemed like as good a time as any to get flat-out drunk and forget the day.

_How long has it been?_

As long as he can remember, if he’s being honest. As long as he can remember, it’s been Soobin. 

Lemon popsicles in the park. Soobin. Trudging their way to cram school in the snow. Soobin. Sandcastles—mounds with strategically dug holes in them, at least—on the beach. Soobin. 

Their first boy-girl party, which sucked. A school field trip to Jeju (which also kind of sucked, but less so because the two of them had got a whole bunk bed to themselves). An away game at Seoul that the team'd lost 2-1, because Beomgyu made the mistake of glancing at their manager at exactly the wrong time—radiant, pink with the effort of cheering his name—and had the ball stolen from right under his nose. 

The year Soobin’s noona had gotten married. The year she brought home her baby, and Beomgyu watched Soobin reach out, wide-eyed, for the tiny fist to curl around his pinky finger, and thought to himself, _he’d be good at this_. The year his parents hadn't spoken to each other at all unless it was to yell and scream, and he'd spent his afternoons hiding out at Soobin's until it was time for dinner. 

His first kiss on a scraped knee — to make it better (“ _It still hurts, Soobinie!_ ” “ _Soobin-_ hyung”). His first kiss on the lips — under covers and then above, their only audience the peeling glow-in-the-dark animal stickers on his bedroom wall. His first real, _proper_ kiss, with tongue — well, that'd been Yeonjun, actually, but only because he was such a good teacher.

But the rest? Soobin.

Namhae wasn't a big town. Everyone knew everyone else. And _everyone_ — the lady selling fresh crabs by the pier; the girls from the convent across the way; their homeroom teacher, sighing in resignation at their matching muddied uniforms, knew that wherever Beomgyu went, Soobin followed. Soobin and Beomgyu, Beomgyu and Soobin.

He comes to an abrupt stop, letting the scuffed shoes fall to the ground. He hadn’t been paying attention to where his feet were taking him, but of course. Of course it’'d be here. This was the park of many beginnings, it made sense it would be an ending too.

"Oi," Soobin waves from the swingset. Beomgyu shuffles over, the frame creaking as he drops down next to him. This was _their_ spot. Red for Soobin, green for Beomgyu. When some uppity mayor hopeful had tried renovating the park equipment to make good on their neighbourhood beautification pledge, ten-year-old Beomgyu had woken up at the crack of dawn to come bully the painter until they conceded to leaving the swings alone. Eggshell white _,_ over his dead body.

"Heard you punched Jaewoo-sunbae," Soobin says, by way of greeting.

Beomgyu snorts, scuffing his feet in the dirt. "Nice of you to say _heard_ , like my bloody face isn't all over SNS."

“It's a nice face," Soobin says cryptically. "And he probably deserved it. Guy's an ass." 

"Can't wait to get rid of him,"

"Heard he's applying to the same places as Yeonjun-hyung."

"That sounds like a problem for someone else." They lapse into silence. Beomgyu watches the night bugs gathering around a distant streetlamp.

There weren't this many bugs in Daegu. Birds and frogs and nosy neighbours, yes, but not bugs. Beomgyu knows this from the summer he stayed with his aunt. Those were pretty much the worst twelve weeks of his life, and not just because his parents were separating. Calls and katalk were fine in principle, but a poor replacement in practice. He’d never spent that much time apart from Soobin before. Not since they were seven, and Soobin, quiet and chubby-cheeked, had agreed to split a harangued vendor’s last lemon popsicle to stop Beomgyu from throwing a tantrum in the middle of the playground. 

When he returned home, things were different. Both different and the same. Soobin was both different and the same.

He was tall now — he'd been tall before but not like this. And _fit_ , the kind that made heads turn for a second look when they were messing around by the sea. Not that he went shirtless often—he was too shy for that—but it was still impressive when he did (to this day Beomgyu doesn't know _how_ , considering the only muscles he's ever seen Soobin work out are his thumbs across the D-pad of a controller, yelling for Beomgyu to _go left, go left dammit)_. And he was _handsome_. So handsome it made Beomgyu's chest ache, in a way that was both different and the same.

And he liked boys. Always had, if Taehyun was to be believed. Girls still, but also boys. This was important information, because Beomgyu happened to be a boy.

(not that it seemed to matter)

"So Yeonjunie-hyung's graduating," Soobin says, conversationally.

Beomgyu hums. "Think he'll come back with a Seoul accent?"

"Oh, for sure. I've already caught him practicing." 

Would that be them next year? Soobin and him, he and Soobin. Soobin would ride off to some university in Seoul or even farther away, to major in education. _Who goes to school to learn how to teach?_ Beomgyu had scoffed more than once, but Soobin enjoyed it. He was good with kids, patient and kind. He liked them, and incredibly, they liked him back. Or they found him an easy target. It was hard to tell. 

Either way, the closest university offering a B. Ed. was three and a half hours away by bus. Beomgyu'd checked. He’s trying not to think about it. 

(trying not to think about how Beomgyu and Soobin, Soobin and Beomgyu might someday become just Choi Beomgyu and Choi Soobin who talked sometimes, on weekends, whenever they were _free_ , instead of living and breathing the same air and space like they ought to do)

"Wonder if this is the year I'll make regular?" He muses aloud, leaning back on the seat to build momentum. "Now that there are openings on the team."

"I think you'd have made regular ages ago," Soobin says, cocking his head to the side, "if you didn't go around getting suspended all the time."

"Maybe if people stopped being _dicks_."

"You can just ignore 'em. What d'you gain from today other than a couple of bruises and maybe your pride?" He clucks, sounding for all the world like one of the hens Beomgyu's grandmother keeps. "It sucks, seeing you get hurt."

"Worth it," Beomgyu's chest-high now, gaining speed. Soobin's silent for a second before he says,

“You've been getting into fights for a while now, huh? Ever since we were kids.”

Beomgyu doesn’t respond, swinging higher.

“I used to pretend I didn’t know the reason why, but I always did.” Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees Soobin smile. It’s a beautiful, terrible thing — dimpled and perfect. “My hero.”

The sky's grown dark, the last lingering rays of sun dyeing it impossibly blue. Soobin's favourite colour. When Beomgyu was little he used to think if he swung fast enough, high enough, he might be able to reach out and grab it. A little piece of sky to give Soobin. 

He digs his feet into the ground, bringing the swing to a screeching halt. 

"Hey—" Soobin says, alarmed, as if only now getting a proper look at him. "Have you been... _crying_?"

"No," Beomgyu lies, turning his chin away, but Soobin follows, getting right up in his face.

"Oh, Beomgyu," he says, sounding disproportionately upset. Soobin should never be upset. Beomgyu spends his waking moments trying to ensure Soobin is never upset. "Beomgyu-yah, have I— have I been making you cry?"

Not really. He tells Soobin as much. Not particularly. It's a lot of things, and Soobin is part of it, but nothing Soobin did could ever make Beomgyu cry. It’s just preemptive senioritis, a year early. And some other stuff, but that’s— that’s Beomgyu's own shit to work through, his own damn fault. He'll get over it, eventually. Someday. They might grow up and apart, but that's life, right? So could Soobin please stop doing that sad thing with his face? None of it is his fault. Beomgyu’s fine, _really_. 

Soobin stays very still, staring at Beomgyu strange and insistent, lips pursed into the shape of a heart.

He licks them, once, twice. "I might be wrong, but." Soobin gets to his feet, the rusted chains creaking at the loss like the public hazard that they were. "Gyu-yah, I think there's been a misunderstanding somewhere. I think we should, like, talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," says Beomgyu, his voice quivering like a child's.

"D'you wanna try, anyway?" Soobin holds out his hand to haul Beomgyu up. It's dark, so he thinks he's imagining it at first, but impossibly, Soobin is smiling.

Impossibly, impossibly.

Soobin holds his gaze, deliberately pressing his mouth against Beomgyu’s bruised knuckles. Kissing it better. No, not impossible.

Beomgyu's lips tremble. There are a thousand things he wants to say; or perhaps a more reasonable number — like ten, as many years as they've known each other. Or twelve, the number of weeks they spent apart. Maybe only one, condensed into words that, like all things good and honest, came in threes.

They weigh the world, not unlike Beomgyu's heart in his mouth, and he thinks _if not now_ then he might never again.

But it's Soobin. And it's like he can read his mind (he always could, even when Beomgyu didn't want him to) because the look that comes over his face is infinitely more tender and unguarded than his softest smile. Although Beomgyu can barely make it out in the dark, he knows it's there. He's seen it before, many times. It'd just taken half a decade to figure out what it meant.

When Soobin closes the gap and gathers Beomgyu into his arms, the thoughts melt like sugar on his tongue.

(like a lemon popsicle in the park on a Summer day)

"You're so dramatic," Soobin says, but he sounds fond. "And you look like shit. Come over and clean up before the party, or Yeonjun'll give us hell."

"Soobin," Beomgyu mumbles into his chest, feeling himself tear up again.

"That's _hyung_ to you, asshat."

"Soobin."

" _Hyung_. And what was all that about growing apart? As-fucking-if. You're stuck with me forever, hear me? _Forever_." 

" _Soobinie._ "

It's none of what he wanted to say, but that's alright. When they kiss, the words unsaid are surprisingly sweet in the swallowing. And he thinks Soobin understands, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [art!](https://twitter.com/yeonbinned/status/1313474415133372418?s=19)  
>   
> thanks for reading! feel free to hmu on [twt](https://twitter.com/yeonbinned/status/1308115326278664194?s=20) <3


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